"Jack," continued Thames, addressing Sheppard, who had only just recovered from the blow, and regained his feet, "I don't ask how you came here, nor do I blame your rashness in doing so. The boy was right. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. She had lost it. The Times slipped from his fingers. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. As she did so the preparation-room door opened behind her. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. Eric Vorsack still toiled at work. ‘I am sure you will.
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